Black Ops Bodyguard

The older man shook his head even as Renalto reached for her carry-on case.

Julia stopped his hand. “I’ll keep it, if that’s all right.”

“Of course.” Instead, he waved his hand toward the passenger seat. “Welcome to Venezuela.”

“Ms. Cutting?” A man approached, his black hair slicked back on his scalp, his black suit—too dark for the heat of the day—tailored to emphasize the steroid-enhanced muscles beneath, matched the dark sunglasses that covered his eyes but didn’t quite cover the pock-mark scarred cheeks.

Without warning, he pulled a pistol from beneath his suit coat and clubbed Renalto on the back of his head. The driver fell into the side of the taxi then hit the pavement.

The man pointed the weapon at Julia. “Come with me.”

When Leopold stepped forward, Julia instinctively blocked him with her arm. “Don’t,” she warned Leopold, her eyes not leaving the gunman. “And if I refuse to come with you?”

The man in the suit waved his pistol toward Renalto. “Leave him or join him. Your choice.”

“We’ll pass, Jorgie.” Cal stepped behind the man, grabbed the gun. Before the man could react, Cal jerked the man’s wrist sideways. The bone snapped, the man grunted with pain and dropped the gun. Cal rammed his elbow in the man’s face, felt the cartilage give way, the blood spurt. “The lady doesn’t like violence.”

Cal kept the pistol and shoved the man aside. “Let’s go.”

“The driver,” Julia warned. She knelt in front of Renalto. “He needs our help.”

“I’m okay, señorita,” Renalto whispered, wincing. Then he reached for his head. “Go with your friend.”

“I will take care of him,” Leopold interjected, already reaching for Renalto’s arm to help him up.

Cal opened the taxi’s passenger door and shoved Julia in, then tossed his bag in after her.

“Put your seat belt on,” he ordered.

After slamming her door shut, he reached into his pocket and flicked a business card on Jorgie. “Tell your boss I’ll be in touch.”

Without waiting for a reply, Cal slid behind the steering wheel.

“Are you all right?” Cal glanced at the rearview mirror, threw the car into gear, then pressed his foot against the gas.

“Yes,” Julia answered, ignoring the tremor in her fingers and snapped the seat belt in place. “What did you give him?”

“A warning.” They shot forward into traffic. Cal swore and swerved past an oncoming car. “Hold on.”

“You called him Jorgie,” Julia said observingly. “Is he one of Delgado’s men?”

“Yes,” Cal replied, then jerked the wheel to avoid a man on a bicycle. “Jorgie Perez. Although I doubt it is his real name.”

“How do you know him?”

“Cain MacAlister gave me a rundown on most of Delgado’s men. I recognized Jorgie from a photograph.”

“When were you going to share Cain’s information?” She asked the question in a quiet voice, but Cal wasn’t fooled.

“You’ve done your research, remember?” he responded wryly. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Jorgie knew you were on that flight. He made contact too quickly otherwise.”

“Our aliases came from Labyrinth, right?”

“Yes.”

“So whoever had access to Jason’s files also has access to Labyrinth’s,” Julia concluded. “That means we can’t trust the good guys.”

“Exactly,” Cal admitted, impressed with her reasoning.

“Including Cain?” she asked quietly.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“So what now?”

“We switch identities one more time. But the next one we use is from one of my private sources,” Cal replied. “And we keep to ourselves for a while.”

“You mean no more contact with Labyrinth.”

A development that worked well with Cal for the moment. His phone call with Cain had hit too close to home.

“You’ve already told me my job is to keep you out of danger and to find Jason. Whatever it takes,” Cal reminded her. “It would help if you told me why Delgado wants you here. It’s not because of the money.”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Julia said, uncertain. “The obvious reason would be that I work for the President and have access to top clearance files.”

“If that were the case, he’d want you back in Washington where you’d be more use to him.”

Cal took a hard right and headed down another main street.

Suddenly, car tires squealed behind them.

“We’ve got a tail.”

Julia caught the dark sedan in her side mirror. “Delgado’s men?”

“Probably.” Cal swerved into the far right lane to avoid a motor scooter. “Hold on.” He crossed two lanes of traffic and skidded into another left turn.

A screech of tires followed a blare of a car horn. Within moments, the sedan appeared and sped down the street after them. “Which hotel were you going to stay at, Julia?”

“The Gran Paraíso.”

He glanced at his rearview mirror and ran through the red light. Julia grabbed the dashboard, held on as Cal swerved to miss oncoming traffic. Suddenly, he hit the brake and fish-tailed into a nearby alley.

A minute later, the black sedan rushed past.

“Delgado owns the Gran Paraíso and several others in the area,” Cal remarked, his gaze on the rearview mirror.

“I know that. I’d counted on my alias.” She leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart before it burst from her chest. “You sound like you know Delgado personally.”

“I’ve had my run-in with his people in the past,” Cal said noncommittally. His gaze swept over her sleeveless cream-colored blouse and burgundy skirt. “What else did you bring to wear?”

“Not much. A pair of slacks. Some shorts. A few cotton shirts.”

Julia looked up, saw Cal’s eyes on her, felt her blood heat, her skin turn pink. “Why?”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Julia.” Cal drove the car down the alley and turned onto the next main street, heading in the opposite direction of the black sedan.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re complimenting me,” she said wryly.

“I’m not. Men notice beautiful women, and then remember them. You can bet Delgado’s men have pictures of you. I’ve been thinking about it since the plane trip.” Mainly because every male that Julia passed took a lingering second glance, annoying Cal. “You’re going to need a new image.”

He parked the car on a nearby street. Cal grabbed their bags. “We’re going to need to alter your appearance a bit. Something more suitable for the drug-smuggling business. We’ll make a stop at a few local shops. Then I need to make some phone calls.”

“Delgado must not have trusted me to follow instructions.” The lie slipped over her tongue, but left a bitter taste behind.

“He’s Colombian Cartel,” Cal reminded her, then waved another taxi down. “He doesn’t trust anyone. Not even his wife.”

ROSARIO CONCHITA DE LA Delgado y Martínez shifted away from the body next to hers and closer to the wine glass on the nightstand.

She tipped the glass upside down, let the few drops fall to the carpet. Annoyed, she reached for the bottle nearby and poured the remaining burgundy into her glass. The buzz from her recent high had all but disappeared, forcing her to make do with alcohol.

“Isn’t ten in the morning a little early for drinking, even for you?”

“Nothing is too early for me.” Rosario took a long sip from the glass, not so much enjoying the bite, but needing the burn of it on her throat and in her stomach. Take the edge off the cravings until she scored more cocaine from Cristo’s guest supply. “What do you care, darling?” She scooted back against the headboard and pulled a silk sheet up over her ample breasts. “It won’t interfere with our little rendezvous.”

Solaris glanced at the woman in the bed. Over a dozen years younger than her husband, she’d been bargained for and bought at the age of eighteen. It had taken her several years, and quite a few miscarriages before she produced the treasured male child for Cristo.

No longer able to have children, she served little purpose in her household. And held little more value than the fine china or Persian rugs.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How beautiful you are,” Solaris replied smoothly. “And how much other women must envy you.”

A delicate brow rose in spite of his sincerity. “And you’ve known many women.” Still, her fingers loosened, allowing the sheet to slide a few inches toward her waist.

Despite her drug habit, her body reminded him of a nineteen fifties starlet’s. The long, ebony hair that draped and curled over golden skin and satin curves. The plump, pouty lips made simply to drive men mad.

Solaris grew hard in anticipation.

Rosario’s gaze drifted down to his lap. “Twice isn’t good enough for you?” She let out a small, female purr. But the breathlessness was there, too, inciting both of them.

Slowly, Solaris tugged on the sheet, the whisper of it seductive as the material slid over her skin until she lay completely exposed.

“I have to be back shortly after eleven. Any later, we risk discovery.”

Fear edged her words, but arrogance made her chin tilt upward. They both knew if found out, they’d die. Or worse.

He dipped his index finger into her glass, then traced one pink nipple with the red liquid.

A soft sigh slipped from her lips. Her hand slid behind his neck, her nails scratching just enough to get his attention before tangling themselves in the hair at his nape. She leaned back against the headboard and closed her eyes.

“I think …” Smiling, he lowered his head, enjoying the feel of her fingers flexing against his scalp. “… some things in life are worth the risk.”

Chapter Five

Most times I scare myself.

Cal’s earlier words drifted through Julia’s mind, leaving her wondering what he’d meant. Even at their worst moment together, he’d never sparked fear in her, only anger. She stifled a small shiver. That was then, this was now.

After they abandoned the car, Cal flagged down a taxi and took her shopping most of the afternoon. She’d tried on nothing, drew no attention to herself, not that it mattered.

From the moment they walked into a store, he’d taken charge. He ignored her suggestions and made his own choices.

Bold, jeweled colors, thin materials, admittedly feminine styles. But all at prices that would put her bank account in arrears for a whole year.

“Still pouting?”

“I don’t pout.” She never had, but if she could, today would’ve been the day. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and looked down her nose. A tactic that served her well in the Oval Office.

Cal laughed. “Could have fooled me.”

He set their shopping bags on the floor and opened the door to a high-rise apartment.

“Stay here.” He grabbed his gun from its holster and disappeared past the doorway.

“Jerk,” she muttered.

“I bloody well heard you,” Cal admonished from somewhere in the apartment.

After sounding the all clear, he appeared at the door. “If you’re going to call me names, at least do it to my face.”

“Why, when I take so much pleasure in doing it behind your back?” Julia snagged the shopping bags, then slipped past him through the doorway.

“What next?” The blast of air-conditioning felt good against her skin. She set the packages on a nearby couch, lifted the hair from the nape of her neck and closed her eyes.

She wore her hair shorter now, styled into a sleek cap of sable that was parted at the side and cut into a blunt slant. It brushed against the smooth line of her jaw, drawing the eye down the delicate line of her neck.

“That depends on you.” The underlying edge had her eyes open, but whatever she thought she heard was gone. He shoved the pistol into its holster behind his back, then slipped off his jacket.

“Are you going to start sharing information with me?” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, leaving the strong column of his neck and a bit of his chest visible.

“For instance?” Julia glanced away, ignoring the skip in her pulse, the desire that tickled the back of her throat.

“We can start with the bank accounts that you placed the money in.”

“No.” Her hand fell away, the hair settled once again on her nape. “And before you rip into me, I’m not keeping it from you out of spite, Cal. It’s my insurance. I need to be part of this mission.”

“Since when has this become a mission?” Cal asked wryly. “I consider it a wild goose chase.”

Julia sank onto a matching love seat, then resisted the urge to slip off her leather sandals and fling one at Cal’s head.

Instead, she settled for a small toss under a nearby coffee table and studied her new home.

The apartment reflected the romantic elegance of a century-old Spanish villa. Rustic reds and muted greens threaded the room, enhanced the oversize adobe fireplace and exposed-beam ceiling. Linen drapes of a pale, buttery-yellow billowed gently against the open windows and balcony doors. The scent of the warm Caribbean breeze tugged at the senses, tempting those inside to wander out, she was sure, to the sun-warmed balcony and the ocean view beyond.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jason was your friend?” she asked. “We were together for nearly six months and you never mentioned it.”

“Because Jason and I weren’t friends,” Cal answered. “We weren’t anything.”

“And yet, you owe him.”

“I owe a lot of people many different things, Julia. And some owe me. It’s the nature of my job. You’ve worked in politics, you’ve seen Jon Mercer operate. The man borders on being one of the best con artists of our time.”

He crossed over to a small glass bar beside the balcony doors. “Want something?”

“No, thanks.” She loved Jon like a father, so it was hard for her to be at odds with him now. Even harder to believe the worst of him.

Stubborn Irish, his wife Shantelle called him in private. With his charming ways and wicked words.

Approaching his midsixties, President Mercer defined the term “larger than life” with a set of strong, broad shoulders, an even gait to his walk and, on most occasions, an even temperament. He was quick to laughter, quicker when the joke was on him, but swift and scathing when it came to dispensing his more difficult duties.

Jon Mercer saw only the black and white when it came down to the laws. Of humanity or the land. He compromised out of necessity—for the people who entrusted him with their lives and the well-being of their children. But on a deeper, personal level, there existed no gray areas.

And Julia admitted silently, that was what she feared the most.

Restless, she stood and walked to the window. The sun sank toward the ocean, painting the beach in tangerine hues, shaping the waves until they tossed and turned with the incoming tide.

“You’re like him, you know.” She turned to Cal. Frustration scraped at her nerves, even while its cause evaded her. “I never really understood that until now.”

“Like who?” Cal opened a cabinet underneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

“Jon Mercer.”

Cal’s lips twitched with amusement. “You’d bloody well better be joking, sweetheart. I haven’t aged that much since you’ve last seen me.”

“I’m not talking in physical likeness.”

But in retrospect, she saw that, too. A younger Jon Mercer, an older Calvin West.

His shoulders flexed beneath the white dress shirt just a bit when he poured three fingers of the whiskey into a highball glass. Her eyes followed the lines, the tailored fit of the cotton from the shoulders to his chest to the flat of his stomach.

It hadn’t been that long since she’d touched the warm contours beneath.

“Do you want me to step from behind the bar so you can finish the job?” Cal said softly.

Startled, Julia looked up, her breath hitched in her chest.

He stilled at the sound, letting his gaze catch hers. Something in his eyes sharpened, then turned almost predatory.

She forced herself to breathe.

“How do I remind you of Jon Mercer, Julia?”

Each of his words drifted over her, low and velvet-smooth against her skin. Small electric shocks pricked at the base of her spine even as the warning bells went off in her head.

“For king and country,” she said, cursing the fact her voice broke just a little. “No middle ground. No matter what it takes. Or who it destroys,” she repeated, just managing to keep the hurt from filtering through.

“It sounds a bit heroic, doesn’t it?”

“If it did, that wasn’t my intent,” she retorted. “I was aiming more for calculated and …”

Dangerous.

He stepped from behind the bar, and her gaze dipped to the narrow hips, the lean thighs barely hidden by the tailored lines of his trousers.

And sexy as hell.

Her muscles went lax, her body trembled. Just with words and a few heated glances.

Damn him.

“And?” he challenged her, and took a swallow from his glass before he set it on the counter. The request was direct, a double-edged sword.

Images of them, naked, their limbs tangled, his body hot and hard against hers.

Julia closed her eyes against the memories.

“You’re not going to get fainthearted on me, are you?” He spoke the words low, against her ear.

Her eyes flew open. He’d moved silently, quickly until he stood mere inches from her. She’d forgotten how quietly he moved. “Let’s not bring my heart into this.”

“Into what?” he murmured.

They were no longer talking about Jon Mercer. His finger touched her ear, traced its delicate curve.

Julia shivered. He gathered her close. His fingers drifted down her spine, making small, lazy circles over her back. She curled into him.

Before she could answer, his mouth covered hers, coaxing, caressing.

“Just one. The one I wanted at the apartment. The one I’ve been craving since …” He captured her groan in a long, deep kiss. Desire rolled through her, over her, in an unleashed tidal wave of heat.

Drowning, she broke away. “Stop, Cal.”

Hadn’t she hitched that ride? A whirlpool of molten lava that tugged at her until her senses spiraled into a thick vortex of desire and anger. Fast and furious, she’d loved every minute of it.

Loved him.

Until he’d played her. Used her to get information for MI6, England’s answer to the CIA.

Top secret information.

Seduce the President’s secretary, steal files from her computer and win the game.

She pulled back, broke contact and forced herself to look at him again. Past the dark, set, sexy features to the cold, calculating depths underneath.

“I think I’d like a drink now.” She stepped away, praying her legs wouldn’t buckle beneath her as she made her way to the love seat.

For support, she settled deep into the cushions. For spite, she crossed her legs, deliberately letting the material slide up mid-thigh.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

His gaze wandered up from her bare feet, over her knees to the tip of the hem. Only then did he shift back to her face. His fingers flexed for a brief second at his side.

“No.” The word was clipped, its sting sharp enough to make her flinch.

Almost.

SOLARIS LEANED ON THE RAIL OF THE freighter, The Hyperion, and took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke caught in his chest and held. For a moment he enjoyed the sting of the nicotine, then slowly exhaled.

The ship rolled beneath his feet. The rhythm set by a nearby crane as it settled orange and brown cargo containers onto The Hyperion’s deck.

He was a fisherman’s son. Spent his youth hauling nets, trawling traps, setting hooks and sails. The work roped the muscles of his six-foot frame, added bulk to the wide shoulders and barreled chest, set steel in his spine.

Over the years, he’d lost his father and two brothers in the storms, while his cousins lost limbs and with them, the taste for the sea.

But Solaris continued, taking pride in what his father had passed to him. The skills, his family’s name. Until the commercial fishing companies muscled in and stole their livelihood—leaving his mother and sisters to starve.

The water lapped up against the side of the ship, its spray caught in the tug of the wind leaving a sheen of salt water sparkling in the air, the taste of the ocean at the back of his throat.

At eighteen, Solaris had killed his first man. A lawyer who came to repossess their family home and business. There was no remorse, no pity. Nothing but utter satisfaction when the man took his last breath with Solaris’s knife in his chest, his hand still on the hilt.

It was then he realized his other talent. And killing had become his new line of work.

For the first fifteen years, he drifted from country to country, hiring his skills out to those who could pay for them, learning his trade, building his fortune.

Then he met Cristo Delgado.

In the years he worked for Cristo, Solaris’s bank account had quadrupled. He even managed a few deals on the side.

Though he had never returned home, he continued sending money to his mother and sisters through untraceable means.

A limousine pulled up near the gangway. Solaris pitched his cigarette into the water and stepped from the railing.

Cristo’s lieutenant, Jorgie, got out of the front passenger seat and stood next to the limo. A bandage crossed his nose and connected two swollen black eyes. Another wrapped around his right hand and wrist.

A moment later, four additional homegrown thugs emerged from a nearby black sedan and flanked the limousine.

Once his men appeared in place, Cristo emerged from the limo, said something to Jorgie while he buttoned his Armani suit coat, and slipped on a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

Despite his age, Cristo managed to stay trim and fit. Driven by vanity, he worked out regularly in the villa’s indoor pool. But besides a mistress or two, Solaris’s boss had no other vices.

Cristo glanced up and smiled, revealing a row of white teeth that flashed against the tanned face and well-groomed silver hair.

Even from a distance, it was evident that Cristo’s smile didn’t quite mask the tight features, nor the stiff, determined gait.

Solaris assumed something had gone amiss with the Cutting woman.

It was time for him to get to work.

“Your boss seems happy enough, eh?”

Captain Damien Stravos appeared beside Solaris. The man stroked his overgrown beard with his knuckles and squinted into the sun.

He was short for a Greek, his head not quite meeting Solaris’s shoulder, with a rotund stomach that hung over bowed legs.

“And why not?” Solaris agreed without qualm. Deliberately, he studied the horizon where the blue sky merged with the deeper blue of the ocean. “It is a beautiful day today.”

“Somehow, I do not think it is the weather that has put Cristo in a good mood,” Stravos commented, wheezing, but from his excitement or his girth, Solaris wasn’t sure. “We have made a good deal.”

Solaris did not correct the captain. It was a good deal. The transportation of thirty tons of cocaine to the United States—a street value of millions—with the promise of more if all went well.

The risks were high, but that was the nature of their business. Solaris didn’t agree with Delgado’s plans for freighting the merchandise over the Caribbean Sea when smaller boats, while less profitable, were easier to keep under the DEA’s radar.

But Solaris kept his opinion to himself. He had no stake in that side of Cristo’s business, so the risk was not his.

Captain Stravos met Cristo at the top of the gangway. The latter ordered his men to stand guard by the rail several feet away.

“Good day, Damien.”

“Yes, yes. A good day.” The captain glanced at Solaris. “Were we not just talking about that?”

After Solaris shrugged, the men shook hands. “You are ready to finalize our plans?” Cristo asked.